


Not A Proper Story

by hafren



Series: Therapy [2]
Category: Blake's 7
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-13
Updated: 2009-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-04 09:42:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hafren/pseuds/hafren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Things We Said Today". The therapy continues....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not A Proper Story

"Damn it, Avon, you can see I don't have a problem any more. You can hardly miss it, with your face an inch from the evidence."

He stops planting butterfly kisses on my thigh long enough to check. "Yes, we do seem to be making progress." The tip of his tongue brushes across it for just a second, and I moan. It's hopeless trying to hold on to my dignity; he can push every button I have. I take his head in my hands to keep him there, and he slips away from me like a fish.

"We have been through all this before." He sounds so reasonable, I could hit him. Except that he now has my right hand in both of his and is caressing it against his chest and I can feel his heartbeat through the light fur…. "It is not just a question of whether you can get aroused, but whether you can stay that way for long enough. I've told you, it is vital to wait until there is no chance of failure."

"There isn't. So let me prove it to you." My voice is ragged. He leans over me, lays a finger on my lips. "Sshh. Your throat sounds sore. All those political speeches, no doubt. Rest your voice." He opens a little bottle and I smell something vaguely herbal. Then he tips my head back and his cool fingers stroke aromatic oil onto my throat. I try to speak again, but he kisses my mouth shut. At least my hands are free now…. I pull him close, feeling his coolness against my hot skin; the bastard, isn't he aroused at all? Well he is, I know that much, because he lets himself go in my arms and I can feel his whole body in contact with mine and the gentle nudge of that shaft against my stomach sends a spasm through me and I clutch as if I could melt him into me.

Maybe I hurt him a bit, because he gasps softly and I ease my grip. And as soon as I do, he frees himself, stands up and puts his clothes on, calm as you like. "Time to go back on watch, I think. Did you say something about a malfunction on the sensors?"

"Avon, for pity's sake…." He pauses at the door and flashes me a smile. "What's that, then?"

*

I think I'll go mad. Being celibate wasn't so bad, now I look back on it; after a while you more or less stop thinking about it. Well, all right, not really. It made me edgy, but at least I could think what I was doing. Now I'm hardly conscious of anything except my own body, the way it aches, the way my arms feel empty. He's woken it up, every inch of skin, every nerve-end, and they won't go back to sleep.

I'm tempted to lock myself in my cabin and take matters into my own hands, so to speak, but I've tried that before and it didn't work. It's bloody ironic, is this. There are six bodies on this ship, including mine, and I reckon five of them would be there for me if I asked them, if not for love then at least out of pity, but it's no good because it isn't just any body I want right now.

It has to be that one. The one bent over a console, doing something with one of those fiddly incomprehensible gadgets of his. It has to be the exact curve of that mouth opening under mine. I have to kindle a flush in that skin, see those eyes cloud over with wanting me, hear that voice thicken and shake…. I look at the printout in my hand, realising that I've just read it from start to finish without taking in a word.

I have to do to him what he does to me, damn it. I didn't mean to make a competition out of it, but that's how everything between us seems to end up. I know that coolness is just a pose; I know he gets as aroused as I do. I only wish I knew how he controls it. He's as deft as usual, while I seem to have lost all co-ordination. I walk into couches I meant to sit down on and I can't pick anything up without dropping it.

I think back to him, that time, hiding his face against me because he'd shown me so much of his heart. He really cared about me then; I could have sworn it. He wanted to help, to make me feel better. Of course he didn't say so; he never does. There always has to be some other reason. Automatic reaction; I'm as surprised as you are. Or: I just want some new material for my fantasies.

And I sweep the printout aside, straight into someone's coffee, and give a strangled sort of shout, because I think I can see it at last, I can see how to do it.

"Are you all right, Blake?" Jenna doesn't leave her position, she's a pilot after all, but she looks concerned. "You're as clumsy as a bear today; for heaven's sake stay away from the flight controls."

"I'm fine. No more ham-fisted than usual." Avon half-turns from his work, leaning on the console with an easy grace that nearly makes me stop breathing. "Probably true," he says casually, "but it might be a symptom of something. Maybe you should go and lie down." Which he knows will give me singularly little relief, given that he doesn't come off watch for another couple of hours.

"Well, perhaps I will, if nobody minds. I didn't get much sleep last night." I smile reassuringly at my trusty lieutenants, noting the friendly sympathy in one face and the flicker of what might be guilt in the other, and leave the flight deck.

I think of the last few weeks, of him lying in my arms, kissing me breathless, stimulating bits of me I didn't even know could react, then holding back at the last minute and going off to fantasise about it. There's a brief, small flame of anger, and then I laugh: come on, he was honest about it. He even told me what buttons to press, if I'd been listening hard enough. And I replay it in my mind, that soft voice whispering strange little screenplays under the covers. He wants material, I'll give him material all right. Only this time I'll write the script. I'm at my cabin door now, but I don't go in, because I stopped the replay at a very interesting point and I need to see Vila.

*

Vila's box of tricks, I call it. Most of them concerned with ways of getting into places or things. Or out of them. The Federation does a keen trade in what it pleases to call means of restraint - second only to the trade in means of persuasion. We find their wares on many a neutral planet, and Vila acquires them when he can. Not usually by purchase, which he says would be immoral. I'd like to think he means it would be immoral to swell the Federation's coffers, but I fear he just thinks it's immoral to buy something if you can steal it.

Anyway he collects them, and then spends happy hours finding out how they work and how to get out of them. He's done little Houdini-shows for us, now and again. I don't need anything elaborate but I know he's got a pair of handcuffs, a real museum piece, but no less effective. Vila can get out of them without the key, because he's practised flexing his wrists and fingers so much, he can practically dislocate them. But none of the rest of us has ever managed it.

He doesn't ask why I want to borrow them, though by the way the corner of his mouth twitches, he must be at least halfway to the truth. I'm past caring what anyone thinks. My skin feels starved of touch and my eyes keep wandering from one thing to another without finding anything they want to rest on. Just wait a couple of hours. In my cabin I stroke a finger round the inside of the cuffs, smooth and cold. I think they were lined with velvet in his fantasy. Well, he'll have to do without that. Anyway in the fantasy he was using them on me.

Oh, no. Not this time. This time I'm the scriptwriter, the casting director, the producer.

And the leading man. That most of all.

*

I sit and wait for what seems a long time, enough time to think about it, and I won't say I don't have doubts. This isn't like me at all, this play-acting. I've always been straightforward and I've always been me, in this department as in others, and I wonder for a moment what it is I want enough to pretend anything else.

And then he walks in, doesn't knock, just walks in, and my eyes go straight to him. He doesn't see me at first; he's looking at the bed as if he expected me to be there, and in a moment I'm right behind him. He turns into my arms, more or less, and I kiss him, opening his lips softly with my tongue. And he welcomes it in, matches it with his own, darting in and out of my mouth for a few moments until he decides he's had enough and moves to break the kiss. Only I don't let him, not this time; I pull him close and kiss harder. It's a long time since morning; I can feel the roughness of stubble above his lips and even though it's vaguely painful I want more of it, and more, and I think he may be having a slight problem breathing, but for all that I don't stop until it's me who's short of breath, and then I let him go.

He's looking surprised, but his eyes are kindling; he likes a challenge. "Well, well," he murmurs, "such enthusiasm. But you might prepare a bit better." He fingers his lip. I see a minute trace of blood and realise I didn't remember to shave today at all. I feel guilty, but that isn't in the script. "Your fault. Teach you not to distract me so much, won't it? Now get your clothes off, and get on the bed."

And he does, watching me the whole time, curious and fascinated. I don't fool myself that this is obedience. He's playing along with his fantasy; it's coming to life and that excites him, but he thinks he can stop it whenever he wants. He always has before. I sit down on the bed beside him, take one of his hands in mine, as any lover might, and fit the cuff on it.

His dark eyes widen. I can't tell if it's in pleasure or shock, and I'm not sure he can either. I grab the other hand before he has a chance to protest, and they're locked together. "Sorry about the velvet lining - couldn't manage that. But very little else is impossible, I assure you."

He brings his hands up in front of him and looks at them as if he can't quite believe it. Then he makes the best of it by putting them behind his head, resting on them with what might look like nonchalance if it wasn't obviously fairly uncomfortable. He still looks bloody insolent though, and I feel a warm rush of admiration for him. I love the way he won't give in to anything, and I reach over and stroke his hair. From the way he keeps himself to himself in public sometimes, you'd think he wasn't a tactile person. But that's in public. He arches into it like a cat, making inarticulate little noises and wanting more. I move my hand away and he tries to rise off the bed and follow it, but I push him back down. "Stay still." He makes to speak, and I shake my head. "You can talk when I say." This is self-defence; I don't want him departing from the script. But it works. There's a flicker in his eyes, of arousal and resentment, and just a bit of fear. Because now the fantasy's becoming real, he isn't quite sure he still wants it….

I stand above him, looking him over at leisure, enjoying him. My eyes linger on the sculpted hollows under his arms, the way his skin seems to hold light, the way he's getting aroused in front of me. When I look back at his face, its pallor is faintly flushed.

I start undressing, feeling his eyes on me. I can't make an erotic production out of it, as he can, but I make myself go slow, do everything twice as deliberately as usual, and I see in his face what I haven't seen since the first time he came to help me: total, undisguised wanting. His eyes travel all the way down me, I can just see the tip of his tongue, moistening his dry lips, and if I were a vain man I'd forget the scars and the thickening midriff and think I was some kind of sex god…. Ah well; mustn't forget what I'm doing.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I cup his balls in my hand and gently caress them. They're hard and hot; they must ache like hell. He closes his eyes and bites down on his lip, moaning softly, twisting from side to side.

"Open your eyes. Look at me." He does, his eyes clouded, unfocused, uncertain, and I smile at him. Then I get up and go over to the clothes-cupboard.

"Wha-what are you doing?" His voice is as wavering and unsure as his eyes.

"Dressing to go out. I thought I'd go and see someone; I've had enough of waiting. And you'll keep - the way you are, you're hardly going anywhere, are you?" I take out a couple of shirts and hold them against me. When at last I let myself look back, he's just about mastered the consternation I heard in his voice, but he looks bereft. I look away again and say over my shoulder "Or I could stay. It's up to you, really."

Silence. I go back, the shirts still in my hand, and say quietly, "I'm not bluffing; I have every intention of walking out of here in the next few minutes, but you can stop me. If you want to."

And he still says nothing, but he brings his hands around in front of him again and holds them out to me, and I feel a warmth just beginning to spread out from somewhere around my heart, and let the shirts fall to the floor.

I lift him in my arms, halfway off the bed, then pause. "So what do you want? Shall I go or stay?"

"Stay," he whispers, his eyes never leaving my face. I raise my eyebrows, reminding him what he's forgotten.

"Stay… please." Ground out between gritted teeth. I can feel the grin spreading across my face, the warmth all through me. Pure delight. I lift him the rest of the way, then sit down on the bed, easing him on to my lap, holding him so close, his cuffed wrists have nowhere to go except around my neck. "Well now," I murmur into his ear, just about managing to keep my voice steady, "you only had to ask".


End file.
